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Clonker got me a new pair of [vegan] shoes.
They are cute! They are fun! Thanks Clonk!
What is the relationship between these numbers:
28
23
19
16?
They mark the waning distance between my periods. Now, I'm guessing women's mid-life hormonal fluctuations are not the primary interest of most blog readers; nonetheless, I am once again bringing up this subject. Pourquoi, you ask? Because this blog is about my life, and right now my life is largely about perimenopause, which is hitting me at a relatively young age. My mother always said I was precocious.
One of the many wonderful symptoms I am experiencing is irregular periods, as you can see from the numbers above. I have gone through various stages in my menstrual life from very careful attention to my cycle (Ah! The moon is waxing, I feel it in my uterus.) to absolute surprise anytime one showed up (Whoa! You again?! Weird.). I've been forced in the last few years to pay closer attention as I have suffered through many forms of irregularity, most recently this seeming countdown to menopause.
As the days between my periods dwindle down from the expected 28 days, each month losing 1 day more, I feel hopeful from a mathematician's point of view that the distance will end at 13 days (and relatively smaller increments of that 13th day). But I am not a mathematician; I deal in symbol and culture, and what this says to me is that something in me is draining away at a rapidly increasing pace. I feel it is not something I want and I welcome the loss. I only wish is wasn't making me quite so woozy.
My secret hope is that the days between will continue to decrease until there are no days between, by which time my reproductive system is so exhausted that it dries up and fades away.
because I can walk there in under fifteen minutes or ride my bike there in about three
because I get a big old lane all to myself
because everyone else in the pool is at least fifteen years older than me (except for the little waterbug who skims across the pool for a half hour every Thursday while her mother/coach provides advice from the deck)
because the pool is not too chlorinated
because there are no nubile undergrads to make me feel like a big melted sundae
because the young girls (ages 6-11) in the locker room stare at me and whisper about my tattoo (and this reminds me of when I was young and stared at grown women in the locker room wondering how my own body would look when I got older)
because I like to smile and say hello to these same girls and they smile back
because the naked old women in the locker room are not ashamed and are not comparing and they look beautiful and make me feel lovely too.
Recent moments of transcendent en(joy)ment:
Watching the terrier curl up for the evening in his bed after a prolonged battle that ended with us putting the pair of long johns Clonk had worn that day into the dog bed.
Looking up through the clear plastic roof of the bus shelter watching the branches of a deciduous tree shivering in the wind.
Having my face licked by the tiny tongue of my chihuahua.
About fifteen minutes into my swim, losing track of anything but the liquid.
Clonk coming home unexpectedly in the middle of the day because he forgot a book and hugging me in the kitchen before heading back to school.
This morning, I had one my favorite breakfasts: grapefruit followed by boiled egg (6 minutes) and sourdough toast. Frightfully traditional? Perhaps. But, I like to think of it as post-war starlet.
People often ask me how I find time to cook, and I usually answer that I make time for it because it is something I enjoy. (Obviously, now, jobless as I am, I have even more time.) But, I also have lots of shortcuts I've developed over the years which require only the slighest bit of planning ahead, easy for me because at least 1/3 of what I think about is food. As I was eating my lentil salad yesterday for lunch, I realized I had used one of my simple shortcuts, and that it would be good to share here for that reason.
Last Friday, I cooked some rice and lentils in anticipation of this being a busy week with not as much time to cook as I'd like. I cook my rice in the rice cooker. The lentils I boil in three times as much water, with salt and a few garlic cloves, for about 30 or 40 minutes. You could throw a bay or myrtle leaf in there too if you are so inclined. For this, you use french lentils, one of the best things on earth. If you did this with regular lentils, of course, you'd have soup.
So, then, once the lentils are cooked, you can serve yourself a little dish of them and pour over some good olive oil, a little more salt and pepper, maybe some thyme, and yum! Instant side dish; also good on polenta; also a nice lunch with a green salad with garlicky vinaigrette and some bread. The rest you can mix with cooked rice -- 1:1 -- and store in the fridge for later.
This rice and lentil mixture can be used in a number of ways. This week, I used them first as part of the stuffing for stuffed eggplant, and then yesterday for a quick lentil rice salad.
Stuffed Eggplant with Lentils
Preheat the oven to 350°. Half an eggplant and scoop out the flesh, leaving a bowl of about 1/4 inch attached to the skin. Salt the flesh in the eggplant "bowls" and brush them with good olive oil. Sauté 1/4 onion, 1 stalk celery, and 1/2 red or yellow pepper. Add 2-3 cloves chopped garlic and sauté another minute or so. Chop the scooped-out eggplant and add to the sauté and cook down a bit. You may want to add a bit of wine or stock or water at this point. Add about a cup and a half of the lentil rice mixture to the sauté, add a scant 1 t thyme and 1/2 t herbes de provence and salt, stir and cook until heated through; then, turn off the heat. Press the stuffing into the eggplants, place in a baking dish, and bake for 30 - 40 minutes, until the eggplant feels soft.
Quick Lentil Salad for One
Dice 1/8 red onion, 1/4 red pepper, 1/2 carrot, 1/2 a celery stalk. Give the rest of the carrot and celery to the dogs who are begging at your feet for them. Mix with 1 cup of the lentil/rice blend and a bit of dressing of almost any sort. Easy, healthy, delicious. Also, good to take to work/school with you.
Clonk and I just completed our annual viewing of the extended version of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings films. I still enjoyed the films: they are visually stunning; the cgi effects are cool; the acting is generally strong (particularly considering some of the goofy shit they have to say); and I completely identify with Hobbits ("What about elevensies?").
Yet, the story didn't affect me as it has in recent years. Clonk said, before we popped in Return of the King, "You know, I'm not really into the quest this time." And, it hit me, it is because our own quest has ended.
We have thrown our dissertations into the heart of Mount Doom; they no longer hang heavily around our necks. The great flaming eye of our committee, our conscience, our inner critics no longer seeks us out. The epic battles are behind us. The Fellowship has disbanded, moving to different universities in different parts of the country, some being crowned, some getting married, some drinking lots of ale. (That last would be us actually.)
So it's the post-quest thirty minutes of the approximately twelve hours of film that appeals to our position now. And, like Frodo, for me, that stab on Weathertop never fully healed, making me see primarily the evil in this insular world. I must consequently "sail away from these lands" to a more peaceful place -- after I finish writing the tale of the quest.
We eat lasagne fairly regularly, and we make it various ways, usually with spinach, mushrooms, tofu instead of ricotta, a garlicky red sauce, and fake mozzarella. But, lately, I've read a few recipes for Lasagne al Forno, which I've had a few times in restaurants but never made myself. I decided to make a vegetarian/vegan version, which turned out so delicious, I'll share it here.
Basically, you make a Bolognese sauce or a ragú and a Bechamel sauce and layer them on the noodles. It's actually easier than the way I usually make lasagne, and the Bechamel makes it incredibly rich and lovely.
Bolognese Sauce:
1 carrot
1 stalk celery
1 small onion
4-6 cloves garlic
1 can plum tomatoes
1 t fennel seed (slightly crushed or ground)
2-3 t dried basil; 2 T fresh
1 t salt
¼ c red wine
1 pkg. tempeh
(red wine, bragg's or tamari, garlic)
2 c chopped spinach
Finely dice the onion, carrot, and celery; sauté in olive oil in a large saucepan. If you have a hand blender, you can coarsely chop them. Cook until onions are becoming limp, then add the garlic and sauté another two minutes. Add the tomatoes (diced or hand-torn as you prefer) and bring to a simmer. Stir in the wine, salt, and herbs; turn down the heat to a slow simmer. Grate the tempeh and mix with 1 T Bragg's or tamari, 1-2 T red wine (you can add some grated garlic or garlic juice as well.) Brown the tempeh in olive oil in a skillet or sauté pan; takes about five minutes and you should stir occasionally. Once the sauce has cooked for about thirty minutes, take the hand blender to it until it is the consistency you like; some chunks should remain. Then, stir in the tempeh and the spinach and remove from heat.
Bechamel Sauce:
5 T butter or margarine
5 T white flour
2 ½ c plain soymilk or cowmilk
½ t salt
2 dashes nutmeg
Melt the butter in a medium saucepan; when it is bubbling, whisk in the flour until you have a smooth paste. Let the roux cook for a minute or so, but don’t let it brown. Pour in the milk, whisking as you pour. Bring to a boil, whisking occasionally, and then immediately turn down to simmer. Keep whisking regularly as the sauce thickens. It will take several minutes. The hotter you cook it, the faster it thickens. It's also faster if you boil the milk before adding, but why dirty another pan? When you can put a spoon in the sauce, and a layer sticks to the back of the spoon, the sauce is done. [There are lots of directions for Bechamel on the web, and I recommend you read several recipes if you've never made it. It’s quite easy, but seeing pictures, for example, can help a lot.]
You'll also need a box of lasagne noodles and about 1 c of grated romano or parmesan.
Noodles:
Boil the noodles in batches of three of four (however many make one layer in your 9 x 11 baking dish) for four minutes. Pull them out with tongs and drain. Trust me, they will soak up the sauces and finish cooking in the oven.
Preheat the oven to 375°. Butter your baking dish. Place a layer of cooked noodles in the bottom. Pour on 1/3 of the Bechamel, followed by ¼ of the Bolognese, and 4 T romano or parmesan. Repeat for three layers. Cover the last layer with the last of your noodles (this will be the fourth row of noodles), pour over the last ¼ of Bolognese sauce and last 4 T of cheese. Cover the pan with foil and bake for 35 minutes. Remove foil and bake another 5 minutes. Remove from oven and let rest for 10 minutes.
My sister-in-law (well that's what she'd be if I was married) is a rare book librarian. I've been talking to her about this career path for about nine years now, and she has always been very encouraging. Now that I've finally applied to library school, she really couldn't be happier and has been sending me all sorts of great info and advice.
I, too, since making this decision, have been happier than I have been in a couple of years (excluding the wonderful triumphant feeling of completing the dissertation and the brief happy afterglow of that accomplishment). I feel weird about being a graduate student again, but I know it will be short-lived.
. . .
And then, last night, I had this wonderful dream.
I was going to visit Librarian Sister. I walked through a big sunny library first, and then I came out into the mountains. There was a huge redwood deck with a big hot tub (which a librarian was getting into). Then, I walked up a wooded path to LS's house, which is like her real mountain home -- kind of craftsman meets cabin. Inside, it was warm and sunny, and she was just hanging out drinking a glass of wine and reading a cookbook. There was good fresh produce on a chopping block in the kitchen, and I had brought a bag of provisions as well. We were going to cook dinner together.
Not too hard to interpret.
Clonk and I regularly walk the dogs in the mornings. Generally, on these walks, we become raptly enaged in often intense conversations in which we analyze life, workplace, culture, family, etc. In the midst of such chats, we fail to notice the other people around us. This, apparently, is a faux pas in our small Midwestern town.
On one walk, deep in an emotionally difficult discussion, we passed by a house, and a woman sitting in her yard with a friend yelled "hello" in increasing tones of annoyance until we finally noticed her and turned to say "hello" in an are-you-happy-now kind of way. Others we pass on the street, who can see we are clearly talking to each other, similarly insist we stop our conversation to say "hello" to them.
Since people are so keen to be greeted here -- which feels very unusual to someone who has lived her entire life in coastal urban environments where on rare occasions someone may smile at you as you pass by -- I have adjusted my behavior to accommodate the culture. If I am walking along and not in the midst of a particularly heavy conversation, I will greet the folks I pass. If I am having a conversation, then I do not. Some people seem to find this rude, but I find their interrupting insistence on being acknowledged by a stranger in the street appallingly rude and uncalled for. "I don't know why it bothers you. It's just Midwestern neighborly politeness," people explain, marking me in the process as a crass and anti-social outsider. But, I ask you, which etiquette book deems it polite to interrupt the conversation of people you don't know? I've read a lot of etiquette books; I've never seen this rule.
We take different routes on our walks, and we walk at different times, so we do not always see the same people. However, there is one woman we run into occasionally who I like to call "The Enforcer." She walks in the street rather than on the sidewalk (as many people do here; I've not yet figured this out), so she is easy to miss if you are not looking for her. Sometimes, we are not talking when we pass her and so greet her politely. Other times, we are already talking and don't notice her until she says, incredibly aggressively for such a benign word, "Hell-o," with the end rising in a pseudo-questioning expectation of response. It's sort of the tone your mother used when she asked if you were going to clean your room. Is this friendly? Is this neighborly? Is this polite? No. This is petty enforcement of her cultural code.
Yesterday, we passed The Enforcer, and when she accosted us with her greeting, we both automatically responded with a quick, dull, downward-pitched, dismissive hello, never even looking at her, and resumed our conversation. I am now somewhat amused by her, but I resent even this level of required response.
[Our cable internet was out all weekend, so this post was delayed. Apologies to anyone expecting an email.]
Friday, we took a lovely jaunt to our state's capital and truly enjoyed its unutterably bizarre main attraction, a museum attended by me & Clonk, four unhappy Midwest families, and approximately one hundred and sixty-three seniors. The museum features a mixture of wax figures with whom you can mingle and have your photo taken; multi-media theatrical presentations with vibrating seats, loud sound effects, and enormous smoke rings; Disneyland-style historical exhibits; and the occasional plexiglass-enclosed artifact.
We also witnessed a remarkable fashion moment just after leaving the museum. Walking toward us were two outfits so jaw-dropping they actually stopped our excited conversation about the contents of the museum's gift shop. Both women, in their late fifties and evidencing poor dietary habits, wore colorful nylon tracksuits spruced up a bit around the décolletage with their own special style touches. One had wrapped about her neck and across her bosom a long string of rabbit fur pom-poms, each pom dyed a different pastel hue and measuring about 3" in diameter. Her friend wore under her royal blue tracksuit what appeared to be an ice skating costume, a mock turtleneck of some sort of stretchy silvery fabric covered in small silver sequins. The husbands, of course, looked like they had just come from a day of hunting and were walking about eight paces behind their peahens. It was practically unanalyzable and thus quite possibly the highlight of the day.
We did not enjoy the lousy food, which I cannot discuss because it was so bad Clonk has forbidden any mention of it in his presence. We did, however, have a glass of good beer in a tan vinyl, smoke-filled bar that played TLC, Bon Jovi, and REO Speedwagon in quick succession and employed a friendly, toothless waitress whose large and visible brow tumor had us a bit concerned for her health.
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